


acute gifts

by sybilius



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism mention, Angst, Apart from using a real knife lol, Benny Watts' tragic backstory, Beth Harmon is well adjusted and happy as she fucking deserves :), Domestic Fluff, F/M, Genderfluid Benny Watts, Genderfluid Character, Gift Giving, Knifeplay, Light BDSM, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamorous Negotiations, Pre-Christmas fic, Safe Sane and Consensual, child abuse mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27491797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: The time of year doesn’t matter. Beth always comes to New York City with gifts, which Benny jokes are mostly for her.This time, however, she's hoping to take one home.
Relationships: (discussed) - Relationship, Beth Harmon/Benny Watts, Harry Beltik/Beth Harmon
Comments: 39
Kudos: 296





	acute gifts

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Beautiful](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27313603) by [ThatPilotGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatPilotGirl/pseuds/ThatPilotGirl). 



> I noticed there was no Benny/Beth knifeplay in the tag and I thought "that needs to be fixed immediately". I am indebted to ThatPilotGirl's lovely fic (linked), which provided the brilliant idea to have Harry as Beth's nesting partner and Benny as her visiting lover. Perfect balance for keeping the house in Kentucky and also respecting Benny's city life.

The glittering shop windows slide by, adorned with synthetic fluff and bright red bows. The sky is dry as it gets, and it’s too early for the city to put up lights, but that doesn’t stop the season from being sold. Beth Harmon frowns as she slows her car at a stop light, glancing next to her. A furniture store decked out to the nines. It’s even placed a tree in the window, overflowing with wrapped boxes. 

The time of year doesn’t matter. Beth always comes to New York City with gifts, which Benny jokes are mostly for her. 

The first was a couch, a muted orange to brighten up the room. It was, in fact, a birthday present. That got her a raised eyebrow, and the glib remark, ‘if this is your way of saying we’re not sleeping together on my birthday, that’s not much of a gift, Harmon’. She’d laughed. They’d fucked on the couch and the bed that evening. 

Then there were little things here and there -- the kitchen, it was easy to slip in a thing or two, since she used it more than he did. The butcher’s knife she could at least pretend was for him. The pots and pans with handles that weren’t rusted, less so. But when Beth ‘accidentally’ left a cast iron skillet in a cupboard in May, she had to suppress a little smile at the smell and cheery sizzle of chicken when she came to visit in June. 

By now, it’s November, the eastern chill creeping into the air, whispering of snow. She parks the car out front, slipping the gift under her arm. A space heater in the shape of a saucer, bright red and modern. 

He kisses her on the lips when she gets to the door. She can feel him smile, start to shake his head when his hands find the box. He raises his eyebrow.

“Again?”

“Well, open it,” she shrugs off the light fabric coat, to reveal a pale mint dress with a high neckline and a bow. It fits her a little loose. She brought it wondering if it might suit Benny. 

He sets the box on the chipped kitchen countertop, lifting the lid, “What is this? Alien technology?”

“To think I’m the one living in a small town. It’s a space heater.” 

“I already have one.”

“Now you have a second,” Beth shrugs and picks it up, already plugging it in close to their chess board. It’ll keep their toes warm while they play. Benny putters around in the kitchen, scooping Indian food onto mismatched plates.

“Just so you know, I’ll think of that one as yours.”

“I’ll take it,” she picks up her fork, “Not making dinner this time?”

“Though you said getting good Indian food was the best part of coming to New York.”

“Kentucky is a low bar for Indian,” she takes a spoonful of the butter chicken, savoring the complexity of the tomato and spice. She flashes him a smile so he knows she’s teasing. 

“Besides, I thought I’d spare you my attempts at cooking.”

“Your cooking is fine,” she shakes her head, “Good, even. But we can cook together tomorrow.”

“You don’t want to get away from all that, see the city a little?” he raises an eyebrow. She almost rolls her eyes. ‘All that’. Benny fancied himself a thrilling alternative to keeping up the house with Harry, and while New York City did offer more glamour than domesticity, more often than not she ended up studying her game harder here than she did back home. It was almost a chess retreat of sorts. 

“You don’t want to stay in so I can kick your ass ten times in a row?”

“Oh. I do,” Benny has never once tired of losing to her, and he still brings a challenge, even three years after her first win at the Moscow Invitational. What was initially a source of pride is now one of relief. Every time she visits she becomes more sure they won’t find ways to bore each other. 

“How’s Harry?” 

“Well, thank you. Wondering when he’ll get to see you,” she flashes him a coquettish look, “Maybe soon?”

In a month, she was hoping. Benny had alluded to Townes and Cleo both going elsewhere for Christmas this year. So that left him without plans. He avoids her implication, raising an eyebrow. 

“You think I want to go all the way to Kentucky, just to eat bad Indian food with you and your husband?”

She frowns, “You know Harry and I aren’t married, and for good reason.”

“Right, yeah. I mean, I’ll see Harry, I like Harry,” he shrugs. This isn’t about Harry. Benny is many things, proud and dramatic among them, but he’s never exhibited anything like jealousy. Beth purses her lips, trying not to come out sour. 

“You’ve never seen my house. My mother’s house,” the emphasis on the last words comes out a bit sharp, and perhaps Benny feels it, because he grimaces, tapping his spoon on the side of the plate. He runs his hands through his hair. Beth almost feels anger rising up watching him. How could he know what it was like; to miss a mother that was so hard-earned, a woman that for a time, was the only balm to the loneliness she carried like a chess trophy?

But then again, her and Benny mostly talked about chess. Avoided ancient history. And when they did, he had a funny way of turning the conversation back on her. She’s never thought to try and pry that open. She meets his gaze. 

He exhales, “Look, I know it means a lot to you, Beth. I just -- it’s complicated, going to a big house like that. I. I’ll think about it,” 

“All right.”

They finish the last of the current with a few companionable chess notes. Beth does feel a little less slighted when he passes her a few packaged squares of her favourite mint chocolate. He tilts his head to watch her, “So, remind me, what show are you going on this week? I remember you did Merv Griffin--”

“No show this time, I just came to see you,” she says softly. And then she adds, remembering how it made her feel, how she choked it down near four years ago, “I missed you.”

The tension in his brow softens, and he stands up and crosses the space between them, touching her cheek gently, “Aw, hell, sweetheart. I missed you too. So we’re not getting to play tonight?”

She rolls her eyes, tugging him closer with a hand on his ass as she stands up, “Well, I want to fuck.”

“I want that too, yeah.”

“And I want to go to Saks off Fifth tomorrow. I’ll dress you if you like,” she murmurs next to his ear. 

She feels his lips quirk against her jaw, “Middle of the day? Daring.”

“After that, we can play. I’ll beat you as many times as you like.”

He scoops her up in a bridal-carry, and she half-laughs. He’s stronger than he looks, that’s something she learned early on in their relationship. All that malarkey about ‘getting into shape’ counted for something. She nibbles at his neck just before he releases her on the bed, and then she’s up on her knees, taking the advantage and pulling him closer, pressing those plush lips and soft mustache next to hers. Best enjoy it while she can. 

They kiss, slow and languid as she lays him down beneath her. Benny is still a speed demon on the board, which Beth loves about him -- but he’s the opposite in bed, every touch measured and assessed. Though he’s done it probably a hundred times, he still watches her lips part, the small gasp when he slides his hand along her chest to cup her breast. She loves him all the more for it. 

She pins his jacket to the bed, curling her fingers around his bicep as he shrugs it off. He tugs her down to his lips, mouthing along her neck until his lips find her earlobe, nibbling at it experimentally until he has her gasping. She almost misses his hands, working like spiders down her spine to pull down the zipper of her dress.

Bare flesh and breath -- even after her first tournament, she was wanting for this, aching for touch, warmth, something to make her blood sing that was simple.

Her deft fingers find the knife-belt, but in an unusual fit of pique, she pulls it out, examining the blade, "You know I still am not sure why you have this." 

She turns to offer him a quizzical look, fully expecting him to toss the knife aside and get back to fucking her six ways to sunday, but Benny has frozen beneath her, eyes on the knife. Three years and she has a pretty good idea of what lust looks like, and right now, Benny looks like he does after she crushes him three times on the chess board and unbuttons her shirt. 

"Watts," she purrs teasingly, then experimentally brushes the tip of the knife along the jut of his collarbones. He visibly shivers, watching her with wide eyes. 

"Do you want me to stop?" she breathes. 

"No, I -- reckon I don't," it’s so rare, so desperately unusual for him to be surprised in the bedroom. 

She kneels on his thighs, flipping the knife up to catch the light, "You know what to say." 

It was Cleo, who pointed out to Benny that "stop" can sometimes turn to slippage with "don't stop" , especially when things get heated in the bedroom. She'd stop in an instant if she heard "Cimarron”, and he would if she’d said “Sicilian”. There’s not a word on his lips as she brushes the tip of the knife just gently along the white column of his throat. She can feel him growing harder beneath her. 

She lifts a hair from his eyes using the tip of the knife, “Who were you looking for protection from, hm? Thought perhaps it would protect you from me?”

He laughs, but it comes out choked with lust. Her lips curl with a small smile. “Benny Watts, helpless. I have to say, it’s an attractive sight. I could ask for anything I wanted from you, couldn’t I?”

She poises the knife at the tip of his chin, just to watch him struggle to nod. Oh, and he likes that too, judging by the way he twitches. It makes her insides throb. And she knows just whose job it is to remedy that. She shifts her hips off of him, letting her dress fall to the floor. Normally, when she gets in this sort of mood, she’d pull her panties down and crawl back on top of his face. But tonight, a different idea comes to mind. 

“Sit up,” crisp, clear orders. They take turns giving orders sometimes. She likes to talk back. He takes it oh so politely, unlike on the board. He fumbles to unbutton his pants, and she shakes her head. 

“Ah. Is there something you’d like?” she slips her panties to the floor now. He licks his lips. She sets the point of his knife to his chin again. God she could get used to the fear and lust in his deep brown eyes. 

“Could I -- eat you out,” he raises an eyebrow. She presses the knife into his chin gently, “Please.” 

“You may.”

“There’s my queen,” he murmurs, almost ruefully, and she smirks, hooking the flat side of the knife against his neck to bring him to her hips. Seeing him kneeling for her like this, the bed setting him at the right height, is just as intoxicating as she imagined. He licks her clit slow and teasing at first, and as the heat builds, she has to switch hands so that she’s grabbing his neck, the knife held steady at her side. Her eyes roll to the ceiling, her skin afire with heat. His pace is more frantic now, reaching inside her to press hard at her entrance. When he reaches those clever fingers to circle her clit, a moan tears from her throat. He licks at her hard and relentless, cupping her bare ass to press closer, harder, faster. 

“Okay, pants off, now,” she gasps, remembering to gesture with the knife a little. The sight of his livid cock, standing to attention, makes her insides throb. Slow down, she thinks, and in response her fingers tighten on the grip of the knife. She points it at him, directing him wordlessly to lie down as she crawls back on the bed. 

She wonders if he would let her mark him, some day, just a small line of red binding them together. Along those birdlike ribs, or teasing the inside of his thigh. She brings the knife gently down there now, watching him suck the breath in through his teeth as the cool metal wanders along the muscle there. 

“Jesus Christ, Harmon, please--”

She laughs breathlessly and mounts him, dropping the knife on the stone floor with a clatter. He goes in, full and long inside her. God, she’s ready. She starts to move, thrusting as slow as she can, watching the way his neck muscles strain. She knows the pace he likes, knows how to work him up to a fever pitch. His hands find her clit, and she nearly bucks into him, moaning gently. 

It’s an agreed upon rule between them: whoever gives the orders comes last. He’s close, and she knows it. She watches the muscles in his jaw contract, and places a hand on his throat, exactly where the knife would have cut.

“Benny,” she gasps, and that pushes him over, arching into her full bodied and raw. She lets him have a half a moment of breathing before she smiles, wicked and wide, and redoubles her thrusts. God, the power in it, the way he was just helpless to her. And he catches up quickly, his lovely eyes turning to concentration as he works her clit hard. 

Her Benny. No matter what the time, the distance, he’d always be there, open and willing and keeping pace with her every move. When she comes, it's also with his name on her lips, her vision flashing black and white. 

Her mind catches up with her a moment later, body splayed out across his chest. He laughs weakly and strokes her hair. She kisses his neck and grabs a tissue to clean them up, settling into his embrace. As her heartbeat slows, Benny still hasn't said a word. That's not like him, usually she has to parry chess commentary as pillow talk. She swallows, hoping they didn't go too far. With her body facing the wall, she can see the knife in the small gap between the wall and the bed. Like a piece of evidence. She turns to meet his gaze. 

"What are you thinking so hard about?" she asks. She considers adding 'if it's chess, I don't want to hear it', but his expression is so pensive it holds her back. 

“Ah. Listen. That -- protection; that. What I mean is, I keep it because of my parents house. Because of my dad, he-- was pretty dangerous. If I’m honest. Used to chase me with his belt when he got drunk," he runs a hand through his hair, looking far too miserable for anyone who just was railed within an inch of his life. 

She almost regrets bringing that into the bedroom, only-- this might be the most she’s learned about him in two years. His ability to talk creeps up on her. It’s easy to miss that it’s never about his history. 

She can understand why. But rather than interrupting him, she just rests a hand on his shoulder, waiting to see what he says next. 

“Anyways, that’s old news, but. It’s why I carry the knife. I stole a kitchen one, once. Kept it on me, hidden, just in case. When he found it he...he laughed. Told me in this-- voice, so quiet, that it was useless if no one could see it. God, it terrified me. I don’t know what he would have done, I just -- I just ran. I ran and never looked back.”

She tilts her forehead, pressing it against his shoulder. She is quiet often, she knows. But speechless is another thing. She hopes against hope when she speaks, it won’t hurt him. 

“I was fourteen then, so old enough to bounce between friends' couches until I could get on my feet. Played a lot of speed chess," he brushes her hair with his hand absently, “So I was okay.”

"Benny…" she trails off, "I told myself I'd never say 'I'm sorry' for something like this. But if I say, ‘I understand’ -- "

"Yeah. Yeah,” he says, quiet and resigned. He caresses her cheek, barely attempting a smile, “Just another reason we get on so well, Harmon."

She holds him close, tight as she dares. Sometimes she has thought him fragile, and hell if she can’t see it when he’s thinking the same about her. She tries not to let it show. Maybe he hates it just as much as her. Maybe that’s why he’s never said anything before. 

"But uh, for what it's worth. Don't let that stop you doing that with the knife again, because that--"

"Was fantastic?" She smiles full-lipped, if a little shaky, "I'm glad to hear you say it too."

"Exactly."

She nuzzles her head into his shoulder. The November air is already raising goose pimples on the drying sweat on her body. When he feels her shiver, he reaches over to switch on a tiny radiator, clearly positioned for a warm sleep. She tilts her head gently at him, brushing her fingers along those sharp cheekbones. Something in his brow is still serious. 

He clears his throat, “I’m not... good with houses in the suburbs. Sometimes. They just -- I can’t stop myself looking around corners, most of the time. My eyes just find places to hide. I can take it for a little bit but -- I can’t think about staying there.”

Ah. So that’s what prompted this. She nods once, draping a hand around his shoulder. He settles his head on her bare chest. His space heater is warm. There really isn't anything else they need right now. 

Only...she does have an idea. 

“Hm. What if I paid for a hotel for you, in town. Four nights over Christmas.”

He turns his cheek to look at her, excitement sparking in his eyes, “You’d do that?”

“Course I would. It can be your gift, since anything I buy you, you just say is for me anyways. And this is for me too,” she admits. 

“How?”

“Means I get to see you for Christmas,” she strokes the curls on his forehead, delightfully tousled as they often are. He hums with pleasure. 

“Maybe as a Christmas gift, I’ll give you a good game,” he murmurs, and that might mean chess, and it might not. She laughs, the joy bubbling over her. 

“You always do.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'll link a picture of the space heater Beth brought, since I think it's amusing.
> 
> https://i.pinimg.com/736x/a6/95/0e/a6950ecd377b754cd6a8c2d0e3f10372.jpg
> 
> Please yell to me in the comments! I loved this show dearly. There may or may not be a sequel to this fic if I'm still vibing after I complete my Yuletide assignment.


End file.
